V
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Love makes everything lovely. . . . Tiva.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Because I do not have a ridiculous amount of unfinished pieces laying around, I have decided to launch another piece. This is a five-parter, which is a spin-off/companion to my story 'L' -a single study in fifty short parts. Anyway, I took my five favorite parts and expanded upon them (which is the result of one nagging plot bunny that decided to reproduce more nagging plot bunnies). This story is 'V' because the roman numeral for 5 is V -just like L isn't really a letter L but the roman numeral for 50. Am I making any sense? "Cause, it's like late and I need to go to bed. So I think I'll shut up now. Feel free to review if you want to, definitely not a requirement though. Keep the peace until next time, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, I own not a single thing. . . . .**

**V.**

_14 seconds until thirty thousands pounds of steel screeched to a resounding stop, only twenty feet away from the single most important person in his world. And for the record, it took an additional twenty seconds to control his pulse and rein in his frantic heartbeat. And a full three hours later that night to check her over, very carefully, in making sure she was unhurt._

* * *

He's not stupid enough to think that he's caught her unaware. Nor is he stupid enough to try and sneak up behind her as she brandishes a knife -because she can wield the blade at him as surely as she can wield it against the vegetables on the chop block.

She's standing at her kitchen sink, deftly, of all things, peeling potatoes. And for a moment, he's stunned at the fact that this simple domestic action has become so familiar to him. Her presence in his kitchen, his presence in her kitchen, both now so routine. And his jogging shoes are sitting at her front door, his cell phone charger resting on her cabinet. His shampoo is in her shower and several Armani suits hang in her closet. And it seems that it's been this way for a long time even though it hasn't. And he likes that.

She is humming now, swinging her hips, murmuring something softly in Hebrew, her sultry alto melodious. And he can't help but think how pretty she is, right now, standing at her kitchen sink in worn grey sweats and a tank top chopping potatoes. And he almost forgets why his heart is still hammering erratically in his chest.

Almost.

So he takes a purposeful step across the tile, abandoning his vantage point of the doorway.

"Tony," she calls over her shoulder, acknowledging him. And he almost wonders how she does that. Almost. (because he knows it's because she's a ninja assassin -or at least this is what I tells himself).

So he sidles up behind her, resting his hands on the curves of her waist, kissing her head. And the chopping stops and she rotates, her back pressing against the countertop, chocolate eyes peering up at him through a fringe of dark lashes. Though her lips quirk upwards in a playful smirk that falls slightly when she sees the vat of turbulent emotions churning in his ocean eyes.

He isn't angry at her, exactly. More scared, worried. Perhaps a little mad. Definitely relieved.

And her lips remain silent, permitting her eyes to translate what words cannot.

And her eyes are asking what his problem is.

And he doesn't trust himself to be rational and calmly explain why he is so wound up, so tense. So he leans forward and occupies his mouth with hers, but his original plan to steel his thoughts through the action shatter as she renders his mind useless.

She draws back, looking into his eyes once more, brow furrowed in confusion. Because he kissed her rather desperately. "Are you okay?" she asks, bringing her palm up to touch his cheek. His own hand comes to rest over hers, fingers lacing through her own.

"Are you okay?" he counters, not entirely redundant.

"Yes?" And she sounds uncertain, even to her own ears, so she clarifies with, "Should I not be?"

"You were nearly hit by a truck, Ziva." -and he is so proud that he managed to keep his voice level.

"Tony, I-" but his finger pressed to her lips silences her words.

He takes a step back, still holding her hand, tugging her along with him -which she permits, double checking that she left nothing on in the kitchen, as he leads her to her bedroom.

"Sit," he orders, prodding her gently, and she complies, perching on the edge of her bed, watching him, now more amused than flummoxed. He discards his suit jacket unceremoniously on the floor, followed by his tie, and, forgoing the buttons on his dress shirt, pulls the garment over his head, letting it whisper to the floor with the his jacket and tie. He runs a hand through his hair, moving to sit next to her on the bed, wearing a white t-shirt and his slacks and his socks.

She open her mouth but again was silenced by his finger pressed to her lips.

"What were you going to do if that truck did not stop? Why did you not get out of the way? I'm trying to understand the thought process here, Ziva, but I'm stumped. So clue me in, okay?" and his eyes are boring into hers, begging for her to grant him comprehension.

She sighs, blinking, laying back on the mattress. And as she watches the ceiling fan blades slice through the air, she talks, voice light, conversational: "I honestly do not know, Tony. I was not going to move, I was going to stare it down, it was a test of sorts . . . . But then, I think I froze," and this last admission is whispered so softly he scarcely catches it -by now having also flopped down beside her.

He rolls over onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, studying her as she studies the space above them. "Look," he tells her gently and her eyes do flicker over to meet his so he continues with his speech, "next time you need to be tested, don't let it be life or death, okay? Because I was pretty sure I was going into cardiac arrest there for a minute, Ziva. And I think my blood pressure has just now returned to normal."

"I did not mean to worry you, Tony."

"Worry me? Sweet cheeks, you scared the hell out of me. I was kinda beyond worrying at that point. My heart rate is just now returning to a safe level, thank you very much." And he finds her fingers pressed to his jugular vein, monitoring his pulse before acknowledging, "Your pulse is still high, Tony."

"Well yeah, but it was coming down. It's just that you happen to have that effect on me."

And a smile ghosts across her lips as he maneuvers himself over her, his hands, bracing his weight on the mattress, resting on either side of her neck, his knees on either side of her thighs. She smirks up at him, running a hand down his t-shirt, "What do you think you're doing?"

He dips his head down, kissing her shoulder, her neck, her jaw. "I'm checking."

And she laughs softly as his lips find the hollow behind her ear. "Just what," she wonders aloud, "do you think you're checking for?"

And he shrugs, peppering her collarbone with kisses. "Making sure you're 'okay.'"

"I told you I was."

He paused, lifting his head up to look at her, "Do you object to my methods, Miss David?"

"No-"

"Then hush and let me assess the situation."

Which he does. Thoroughly, carefully. For three hours.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And here is chapter 2! I kinda like this one, though be forewarned, it is extremely fluffy. And kinda cliched. But totally them (or at least I think so). This is dedicated to anyone who has a birthday (today, next month, yesterday, last week, etc.) Peace and love and Happer Easter (and Happy Passover) Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I highly doubt the Easter Bunny will bring me rights to NCIS. However, Easter Bunny, if you are listening, feel free to bring along some plot bunnies :^).**

XXXIX.

_39 candles extinguished on the white expanse of homemade cake, smoke curling in grey tendrils towards the ceiling. She never thought she'd get to see this and he didn't either. She didn't actually think she'd live this long, he'd just she miss it. (Though she promises to never miss his birthday.)_

He fumbles with the key, muttering in the darkness of the hallway as it deflects off the lock for the fourth time and launches out of his hand, jingling delicately when it hits the floor, bouncing next to his shoe. He sighs, stooping down to retrieve it as the scratching sound of the lock being unlatched sounds from the opposite side of the door. And he is bathed in the warm glow of the apartment lights and her.

"Shalom," she greets smoothly, arching one eyebrow in wry amusement at him crouching on his front stoop.

"Breaking and entering, Zee-vah?" he asks, straightening up.

She smirks, stepping aside to allow him entrance. He brushes past her and she closes the door after him with a soft click before sauntering past him as he takes off his suit coat. She pauses at his kitchen doorway, leaning against the post, and informs him, "It is not breaking and entering if you have a key . . . ."

"Yeah yeah yeah," he says, kicking off his shoes and depositing them next to hers.

He walks into the kitchen only to find the she isn't anywhere in sight. "Ziva?"

And the lights shut off and he is plunged into darkness. "Ziva?" he calls again, this time more desperate, this time more alarmed. He catches his foot on the corner of the cabinet, which sends him nearly airborne as he utters a yelp and hobbles over to a chair, feeling his way blindly. "Zi-"

"Stop shouting, Tony. I am here," her voice floats from the adjacent room, calm and utterly unconcerned. He sighs, massaging his throbbing toe, asking, "Do we have a flashlight?"

"We do not need a flashlight, Tony."

"Ziva-" but his words die in his throat because she appears in the doorway, her face illuminated by the inferno glowing in her hands. The inferno, he realizes, being his birthday cake, which she has apparently, meticulously, adorned with the correct number of candles. All thirty-nine of them.

And her voice is melodious as she sings 'Happy Birthday' in her sultry alto. "Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Tony. Happy birthday to you." She places the cake (and the subsequent conflagration) before him, biting back a laugh at his shock. "Surprise," she whispers, kissing the top of his head. "Now make a wish and blow out your candles before they get wax all over the cake."

"You think I'm going to be able to blow out all these candles?" he teases. And Ziva responds to this by setting a fire extinguisher on the table next to the cake. Which makes Tony laugh and suck in an audible lungful of air before exhaling theatrically, sending the candle flames dancing and sputtering out into oblivion.

"Very nice," she compliments, leaning over the table and flicking the light switch. And now he realizes that there are several party favors occupying the airspace above them, half a dozen blue and green latex balloons floating around a big helium-filled foil duck.

He points upward as she cuts the cake, "What's up with the duck?"

And she shrugs delicately, sliding him his plate. "It was either the duck or an odd yellow sponge wearing pants. At least the duck was cute."

And they are quiet for a moment, sampling her culinary expertise.

"Mmm," he moans, "This is fabulous. You remembered."

"Your birthday or your fondness for red velvet cake?"

"Both," he clarifies, taking another bite, savoring the flavor. Her cooking was devilishly good, why he thought her baking would be any different, he knows not.

She sets her fork down, shifting in her seat to face him better, placing her palm against his cheek. "I never thought I'd get to see this," she whispers.

And his lips twitch upward in a grin and he agrees, "I thought you'd miss it this year." And next year. And the year after that.

"I never thought I'd live this long," she confesses. "I never thought I'd get to see this. Someone I love actually live past thirty. . . . I promise I will never miss another birthday." And a small tear escapes down her cheek and she smiles at him, wholly and utterly happy. "What'd you wish for?" she wonders, running the heal of her hand over her face, being them back into the present.

He leans forward, brushes his lips against hers, once, twice. "If I tell you what I wished for, it won't come true, Ziva." And she rolls her eyes, properly chastised for her erroneous attempt to corrupt his birthday wish.

"Do you want your present now?" she asks innocently and he nods, frowning slightly when she gets up and disappears into the other room. So he stands up and makes to follow her, but only gets as far as the middle of his kitchen before she materializes in the doorway, hands behind her back, that mischievously playful glint shining in her eyes.

Ziva takes five strides and is standing before him, his ocean eyes alight with curiosity.

"Yom huledet same'ach, ahuv sheli," she purrs and in one fluid and graceful movement, her hands appear from their previous concealment, and brush against the crown of her head before falling to her sides once more. And he blinks in surprise before his face breaks out in a slow, dazzling smile.

Because resting atop her head is a shiny silver bow.

He takes her into his arms, holding her close to him, breathing her in as she buries her face in his shoulder.

And he whispers sweetly in her ear, "Whaddaya know? My wish came true."

......................**/)/)**........................................................................................................................................................................................................................... . NC..................**(., .)**_ ........................................................................................................................................................................................................................... IS..................**(")(") )0**........................................................................................................................................................................................................................


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A continuation, of the continuation.**

**DISCLAIMER: Nothing is mine. Sadly.**

XLVIII

_48 scars he counted marring her skin, crisscrossing across a golden canvas, faintly pink, eliciting both pain in his heart and memories in her mind. He traced each and ever one of them, as if a feather light brush of his lips will erase anything._

He's laying on his back, eyes closed, listening. The sounds of her moving about his bathroom filter through the closed door, the snap of a toothpaste bottle, the rush of the sink. And then there is silence and he sits up, leans languidly against the headboard as she opens the bathroom door, clicking the lights off as she pads into the bedroom.

She smirks at him as he watches her movements, green eyes calculating as she moves to flick the light off. Her skin is shroud in a robe, the pale pink silk skimming her knees, her wrists.

He's plunged into darkness.

"Ziva?"

"Hmm?" her murmur comes from the area between the light switch and the bed, limbo.

He shifts, the mattress groaning slightly, and she hears the whisper of the sheets. "Turn the light back on."

And her brow puckers and furrows and she is confused. "Why?"

"Because I want to see you."

Her puzzlement is palpable, but she concedes to what he asks and her fingers find the switch and flick it upwards. The room is bathed in the soft glow of lamplight and his eyes settle on hers, as she stands idly at the door, fingers still resting on the switch plate, one eyebrow arched quizzically.

He cocks a lopsided grin at her, motioning for her to join him. Ziva lingers.

"Tony," she says, slowly, tentatively, obviously still befuddled at his antics. "Why am I leaving the light on?"

"Because I've let you leave it off now for the past two months. I want to see you, Ziva. Please."

There's a snap and the lights are out once more.

She can hear him moving again, the swish of sheets as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the muted thump as his feet hit the carpet.

He crosses the room in a few easy strides and finds himself standing before her. His hand settles over hers and he flicks the lights back on. She blinks at him, slowly, owlishly, peering up at him between a thick fringe of lashes. He lifts his hand, gently brushing a loose strand of hair off her face.

"You trust me, right?" he asks simply, unabashedly.

Defiance enters her eyes, a jumping flame at the fact that he had the gall to ask such a thing. "Of course I trust you." And she speaks this with such conviction, such finality that he knows that it is true.

"Then what's the problem?"

Her eyes diverting to the floor are his only answer, so her moves his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up towards his, forcing her to look at him. "Trust me." And his other hand takes hers and he leads her over to the bed, untying the ribbon at her waist, slowly easing the silken garment from her skin. He smiles at her, standing before him, clothed in her underwear and bra, simple black silk and warm golden skin.

He brushes a lock of loose hair behind her ear, running the soft tress through his fingers. His ocean eyes are bright and clear and fixed firmly on her eyes, mahogany and guarded.

His lips brush her temple and she sighs, shuddering slightly. And he wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her to his chest, pressing another kiss against the junction of her neck and shoulder. He finally loosens his grip on her, holds her back at arms length, lets his gaze drop from her face . . . .

And his worst fears are confirmed, the events of last summer solidified further in concrete and there is no denying what transpired. He now has both a verbal account courtesy of her, a written record coaxed out of Ducky, and the physical evidence that crisscrosses across her skin.

The scars are small, a few exceeding two, three inches. The skin is lighter, newer than the unmarked flesh around the healed wounds. He runs a finger over a particularly jagged score, the surface slightly raised and rough, positioned just below her right breast. She stays stock still, eyes staring ahead.

He knows he shouldn't count, but he does, one, two, three, four. Silently, in his head, growing sadder and angrier and happier as the numbers climb higher and higher. And he is sad because he blames himself, remorseful that this fate befell her. And his is angry that the bullet that destroyed her tormenter was not his. But he is happy, happy that this is all that marks her, because scars are far less worse than her not being here at all.

* * *

She is laying on her stomach, cheek pressed against the coolness of his pillow, mattress soft beneath her. Her eyelids flutter open at his touch, the brush of his lips against her bare skin.

"Tony?"

"Hmm?" Another kiss pressed into her shoulder blade.

"What are you doing?"

"I am kissing it better," as this is the most obvious answer in the entire world. And he continues his ministrations down her back, every knob of her spine kissed whole.

She smiles, counting, even though she shouldn't.

One, two, three, four.

A feather light touch on her left side, right above her kidney. Another gentle brush directly under her scapula.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

He ignores nothing, not the tiny pale line at her nape, the monument of when her necklace was from her body. He finds the cluster of pockmarks from cigarette butts, some from earlier years.

Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six.

One long gash from bomb shrapnel, carving a thin line from her hip to the back of her thigh. The ropey old bullet wound, her souvenir from Cairo.

Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three.

An intake of breath, quiet and surprised, and a firm pressure against the curve of her waist. Because he has seen now the curving line engraved into her skin. A sloppy 'S'.

Forty-six, forty-seven, and forty-eight.

His fingers trace the series of lines etched in the small of her back.

"Did it hurt?" And his rough voice betrays his steady hands.

"Yes." Of course.

"I'm sor-" but she rolls over now, interrupting the apology perched on his tongue with a finger pressed to his lips.

"It does not hurt anymore," she tells him, her voice full of conviction, finality.

And he nods, his lips brushing hers softly.

And he tells her, "You are beautiful."

And she knows that she is whole again.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Wow. Two updates in one day? It must be Spring Break! Much love, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, nothing.**

XXXV.

_35 inches of snow that effectively blockaded them into her apartment._

"Overnight a blanket of snow has covered a majority of the D.C. area. Now this is expected and salt trucks have been deployed, however, due to severe traffic congestion icy roads may persist for a while longer. Until then, boys, time to break out the snow shovels because Jack Frost has paid another visit to our nation's capital. . . ." the meteorologist's voice floated through the open doorway, cheerfully sarcastic at the evident forecast. . . .

"Tony?"

"Hmm?" The shower shuts off and the rustling of the shower curtain is heard from the bathroom. She pokes her head around the door in time to see him emerge, sandy brown hair mussed up, shoulders shiny with water droplets, beige towel wrapped around his waist. He looks up at her, grinning wolfishly as she stands before the mirror clad in only her underwear and bra. She glares pointedly at his reflection and he diverts his eyes only to have his gaze flicker back up when she asks, "Who is Jack Frost?"

And Tony groans silently because he knows his next six minutes will be filled with an explanation of winter's personification and an additional five minutes will be spent defending this aspect of American culture. . . .

And thirteen minutes later Ziva shrugs her acceptance of this odd American character and retreats into her closet in search of clothing.

"Hey, Ziva?"

"Yes?" her voice is muffled from the confines of her closet.

"What's the forecast?"

She appears in the doorway, tangled in her sweater, her head materializing from the folds of cashmere. "Cold," she states, bumping his hip with hers, moving him out of her way as she makes to tame her hair now electrically charged and flying in every direction.

"Cold," he repeats lamely, staring at her pointedly. "Thanks for that."

"Anytime."

"Don't know what I'd do without you."

"I know."

She saunters back out of the bathroom, purposely putting an extra swing in her stride. And with a growl, he follows her, muttering something about modesty and time constraints.

"We need a snow day," he announces as she sets his steaming mug of coffee before him. He's slouching at her kitchen table, yesterday's paper fanned out in his lap, absently picking at his toast. "We're gonna be late for work."

She snorts from her perch on the counter, coffee cup paused at her lips, reminding him, "I'm not the reason we are late."

"You're the cause of the reason we're late."

She plops down off the counter, making her way to the front door, picking up her boots, "I am only half the problem here, Tony."

"We still need a snow day," he repeats, standing up and following her after cramming his remaining toast in his mouth with a crunch.

They bundle themselves because the morning high is a crisp seventeen degrees. He shrugs on his woolen trench as Ziva slips into her own coat, the wool a pretty olive green. She winds her scarf around her neck, pulling the thick striped cashmere up over her chin and mouth, a defense against the cold. And he tugs his gloves on, and she has to help button his coat because the leather encasing his hands is preventing his ability to work the buttons at an efficient pace (and she knows he did this on purpose, because he is that shameless).

Finally, they grab their respective bags, each shouldering their burden with practiced ease, and Tony opens the door.

And an eerie silence and calming stillness greets them on the other side.

White, pristine snow is crowding on her front stoop, the icy layers as high as Tony's knee. And Ziva looks over her partner's shoulder, eyes wide because she has seen snow before but never this much. It had to be . . . .

"Three feet," he murmurs, awestruck. "It's gotta be at least three feet in some places."

And if they crane their necks, or at least if he does as she is still too short, their cars are visible. Or, at least, the white mounds rising up out of the permafrost is able to be seen.

"There is no way we are going to be able to drive in this," she states simply.

And he adds, "There's no way we're even gonna be able to leave the parking lot in this. . . . You got a snow shovel?"

"That depends," she answers silkily, "Are you going to do the shoveling." And when he doesn't give a reply to this, she amends, "I do not have a shovel."

He nods, relieved, and they stand there for a few more minutes. And then the wind picks up and they retreat inside to the warmth of her apartment.

"Yeah, boss. . . . I know, boss. . . . I will tunnel may way out if I have to. . . ." Ziva watches in prime amusement as Tony paces the length of her living room, completely engrossed in his phone conversation. She had been the first to call Gibbs, inform him that she had a head cold and would not be able to work. He had asked no questions and given her a 'feel better' before hanging up. Of course, Gibbs was not as sympathetic to his senior field agent. "Thanks, boss. Bye- He hung up," Tony announces, flipping his cell shut and plunking down next to her on the couch. "I had to promise I would tunnel my way out from my apartment if a crime scene came up. . . . You know what this means, don't you?"

"No snow ball fights," she vetoes before he can even verbalize the idea.

He pouts at her, demanding, "How am I supposed to give you a traditional American snow day if we can't have a snow ball fight?"

She sighs, standing up. "Fine. We can have a snow ball fight-" his jaw drops in surprise "-however, if that is the case, then there will be no time for a steaming bath . . . . ."

"Steaming bath? Like, together?"

"Mmhm."

And suddenly, he's past her and in the bathroom, the sound of the tap running bringing a smile to her lips. She could come to like snow days.

She really should thank Johnny Frost. . . . .

* * *

**A/N: Aside from the lame last line, how am I doing? One more chapter to go, any ideas which number it should be? Anyone have any favorites? No clue what I'm talking about? Kit?**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Has anyone else noticed that this storyline has been ignored on the show? That was pointed out to me and it is true. If CBS/DB is listening, we would like a resolution -a happy one. Anyway, here we go! Peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Nothing here is mine. Or at least, I put the words in order as you see below. But the characters and storyline? Yeah, not mine.**

_XXVII._

Dedicated to Jananae as she suggested it.

_27 amendments to the Constitution, his and, hopefully, hers. Twenty-seven amendments and eight long months of relentless studying. Twenty-seven amendments and he finds himself nodding off twenty-seven times at his desk because she is in a room somewhere taking the test that will ultimately deem her fate -however, he has already pondered other options of her earning her citizenship. He stayed up into the wee hours of the morning studying with her ad several more hours after she fell asleep worrying for her, praying that she passes._

"'A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed-'" and by 'being' her voice is added to his, a flawless and amused cadence as they speak in unison.

"The Second Amendment, part of the Bill of Rights, adopted on December 15, 1791," she answers, grinning at the question she helped ask. "Tony, I know that one."

"Yeah, you would," he replies playfully, stretching his long legs out across his bed. She is sitting Indian style on her "side," leaning up against the headboard, various papers scattered all around them like snow. Snow marked with neat print and her tidy script, margin notes and post-it notes and Tony-notes full of utter randomness.

He flips through the eleven page packet devoted solely to the Bill of Rights. He settles on another one that she would most definitely know -though she knows them all, frontwards, backwards, and, he's sure, several languages: "Eighth Amendment."

"'Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted,'" she recites, verbatim, as if she is holding the exact definition in her hands. And he fleetingly wonders if attaching someone's testicles to a car battery constituted infringement. . . .

He quizzes her on each article, Congress' role in the law making progress, the entire system of checks and balances. And as he reads and she answers, each and every one correctly, he wonders how on earth he ever passed Government when he was a freshman in high school because the information before him was incredibly detailed, ridiculously similar, and incredibly lengthy.

The study guide that was given her courtesy of McGee has a footnote at the bottom of the page, a handwritten reminder that is also a spoken and written part to test her English. When Tony points this out, she swats him, demanding, "And what is wrong with my English?"

He holds his hands up in the universal gesture of peace. "You'll do fine," he reassures, amending his statement with, "So long as they don't ask you about American idioms and common colloquialisms. Or contractions."

"I am perfectly capable of American idioms! Stop being such a doubting Tom."

Tony fights back the urge to grin as he gently corrects her, "It's doubting Thomas, Ziva."

"Then who does the peeping?"

"Tom."

She waves her hand, stirring the air indifferently, "Tom, Thomas, same thing."

And he concedes that this is true, silently convincing himself that the naturalization test will not ask her about stupid idiosyncrasies.

Taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, he channels his best Alex Trebek, "And now onto American History for five hundred."

The last time he looked at the clock was at 2:13 when Ziva's words were muddled with sleep but her answers remained concise, correct, and relatively lucid. Somehow she had migrated throughout their study session, leaning up against his side, shifting so her head was resting his lap. She lasted about a half hour more before sleep had finally claimed her, dragging her tired mind into what he hopes was a state of peace and not a dwelling of what the afternoon would bring.

What if she didn't pass? As illogical and improbable as that slim chance may be, what if? What would he do? Would she be deported? Back to Israel? Could he stand that? Could he go with her? Would he go with her? Gibbs would never allow her deportation, though, he'd scare immigration into letting her stay, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? Vance would be no help, but Tony was willing to make a deal with the devil, so why not deal with Vance? He would give his soul, his badge, anything. Easy. And what if she failed and wasn't deported, but not permitted to work at NCIS? Could he stand that? Not seeing her everyday, talking to her. He'd had enough of that deprivation the past two summers to last him a lifetime. . . . Who was he kidding? She was going to pass. She knew the information better than the founding fathers.

Besides, if she failed and wasn't deported, but not permitted to work at NCIS, it wouldn't matter. He'd still see her. Everyday. Every single day. Every morning and every night, when he woke up and when he fell asleep. And during his lunch break.

Worse case scenario and he had a plan. And it was an ingenious plan.

A plan that would make Fred Tuttle jealous.

"Tony? Tony?" quiet voices echo in his exhaustion fogged mind, beckoning him, calling him. He keeps his heavy eyelids staunchly closed, perhaps if he ignores them, the voices, then they will go away. . . .

"Anthony? My word, Timothy, is he all right?" Ducky's lilting brogue penetrates the fog, intruding on a whispering nightmare in where Ziva failed her test. . . . .He bolts upright with a gasp, chair rolling backward, colliding with his filing cabinet, tilting dangerously.

He blinks fuzzily, gathering his surroundings, confused as to why his bedroom is so bright and why two Duckys and two McGees are standing at the foot of his bed. . . . He shakes his head and they focus, each pair of twins morphing into two singular entities. Ducky is watching him with a look of concern while McGee is staring in shock and worry.

"You okay, Tony?" the younger man asks, studying him.

And Tony nods, slowly, gaining conviction after a few bobs, "Yeah. Why not?"

Now McGee is looking at him funny, like he is making no sense at all, and says, "You fell asleep at your desk."

"Nothing new there," he retorts, straightening his tie, rolling back to his desk.

"Twenty-seven times?" McGee asks skeptically.

Tony rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "The fact that you were actually counting, Tim, is really kinda pathetic-"

"What's pathetic?" Gibbs demands, briskly striding into the room. He takes his post up behind his desk, fixing a steely glare at his two charges, cocking a silver eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

McGee balks, scurrying over to his desk, stammering his excuse when Gibbs rises, picking his way to stand beside his friend and tower over his senior agent. Tony gazes up at him through half-lidded eyes and Gibbs thinks he hasn't even seen him this tired with a hangover.

He leans down, murmuring to Tony, "She'll do fine." And swatting him on the back of the head. Which causes DiNozzo to sit up a little more lively, though still zombie like.

And the paperwork is resumed.

And office life continues with one empty desk. . . .

"Be honest, how do you think you did?"

They're sitting downtown, outside on a restaurant's patio, sharing a bottle of chardonnay. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail and her face is glowing, in contentment and the light cast down from the lanterns overhead. His suit jacket is draped across the back of his chair and the buttons at his collar are undone, his tie on the floor of his car in the parking lot. He came directly after work to get her and, both starving, treat her to a celebratory (?) and impromptu dinner.

Alas the American dream.

She offers him a one shouldered shrug, her extended fork hovering over the large slice of cheesecake resting between them. She scrapes off a generous bite, pausing with it at her lips, teasing him and drawing out the suspense. "I'm confident."

"Did you just use a contraction?" he asks in mock awe -and relief at her hopefulness.

She smirks at him around her bite of cheesecake.

"Well," he says, leaning back, sipping his wine, "if you fail-"

"Thank you for that vote of confidence."

"Then there are other ways to become a citizen."

"Oh?"

"Oh yeah. Worse case scenario? You can always marry me."

* * *

**I do intend to expand upon 25 from L. but it will be a stand alone oneshot, seperate from this. Just wanted to let you know, since someone suggested it :^) Kit.**


	6. EXTRA

**A/N: Okay, so this was supposed to only be five chapters, but you get an extra. I liked this one a lot! Thank you to everyone who reviewed! You are all fantastic! Stay tuned, I have quite a bit brewing on my laptop! I'll shut up now, much love, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything.**

XXVIII.

Dedicated to Mooncombo, who suggested this one.

_28 minutes he watched her this morning, curled against his side, perfectly fitting in his bed in this moment. Her face is serene and her breathing quiet, only periodically disrupted by a choking snore. She mumbled something, his name included in the mix of words and, he suspected, varying languages. But she smiled, snuggling closer to him, and he conjectured that whatever she was dreaming, it was good._

He isn't entirely for sure what roused him from his peaceful sleep. Perhaps it was the rain, softly pinging droplets against the windowpane, the sound of water flowing down the gutter outside. Or maybe it was the long, choking snore emitted from the woman sharing his bed, her lips slightly parted, momentarily possessed by a emphysemic sailor with tonsillitis. And he has wonder before if he should worry about her health, if perhaps this was a manifestation of apnea, but this thought is discarded as her body expands and contracts against his in slow, easy breaths.

She's curled against him, pressed against his side and he thinks she did this on purpose because it seems that she has tried to get every inch of her possible to touch every inch of him possible. Because she is coiled in a semi-fetal position, her small frame appearing impossibly small, with one of her feet pressed against his thigh. And he can feel her heartbeat through her back, her warmth emanating off her both comforting and surreal.

There is a lock of hair that has fallen across her face, slipping down over her nose, and he thinks it has to tickling her. So he uses that excuse as a justification to brush it away, gently, touch feather light because waking a sleeping ninja is a bad idea.

He has to crane his neck to get a better vantage of her face, but he manages -a not small feat because he has to maneuver himself without disturbing her. Her face is incredibly serene, a living portrait of peace. If only she would have this same expression during the day, this look of carefreeness, of calm. And that is what is so nice, he muses, about this. This partnership, this friendship, this relationship. He gets to see this other side of her, this rarity.

Because this woman does not fall asleep on the job, she does let her guard down, let her defenses puddle on the ground. She does not trust anyone enough to relax in their presence, to loosen her tongue in uncensor and reveal inner secrets and memories and wishes. She obviously trusts him, by day with her life, by night everything plus.

She sighs, rubbing her face against her (once his) pillow. And he grins, rolling onto his side, his body wrapping around her protectively, pressing a kiss into her shoulder blade. Warm fingers find his wrist, forming a manacle, and she tugs his arm, draping it over her waist.

And she seemed to be dreaming and he so very wishes he could see whatever it is she is seeing, because it must be good. Her lips curve upward in a smile, and another sigh escapes her and he tightens his arm around her, breathing her in.

She smells like cinnamon and honey and . . . . Axe shampoo.

And she fits so perfectly here, against him, two puzzle pieces whole together. And it is as if she has always been there, in his bed, in his apartment. Her clothes in his closet and that fruity juice stuff that she loves in his fridge. There is no doubt that at six o'clock in the morning that she belongs anywhere else. She's perfect right where she is.

With him.

He dozes off again, briefly, half conscious, half un. And he listens acutely because it's been awhile since her last nightmare, since he's been woken by her whimpering, her shaking. And it is his unofficial job to wake her up, to guard her from her ghosts. A duty he gladly bears. Because it's for her.

Her soft cries, episodes now so far apart these days they are scarcely counted, are not what wakes him again. Nor does her shivering. In fact, she isn't in distress at all. Her lips are still parted slightly, swollen from sleep, a jumble of words slipping quietly off her tongue. The majority of what she is saying is indiscernible, but a few coherent words survive the confusion.

" . . . . .Ti . . . . t'aime . . . amore . . . Tony. . . ."

His brow furrows as his mind belated translates her whispers. And since some of what she said, amongst Hebrew, English, Spanish, and French, is Italian, he asks, "Cosa?"

"Ti amo. . . . Tony."

"Sei la mia anima gemella, Ziva." And he doesn't think she understood what he said, but that was just fine.

And she snuggles against him, worming her way backwards, drawing impossibly closer to him. And he never pegged her for a snuggler, but it was a pleasant surprise.

All of her is a pleasant surprise.

Before he drifts back to sleep again, his eyes wander to the clock. And the numbers it professes in neon green read 6:23. And it amazes him that watching her for twenty-eight minutes seemed to last so much longer.

But that was good. That meant that the rest of forever will last so much longer too.

* * *

_**FIN**_


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